


blood is thicker than water

by nightofdean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chuck Shurley is God, Chuck raises sam and dean, Gen, and the end dean is thirteen and sam is 5/6, at the beginning of the fic dean is like 8 and sam is leetle, chuck is like some super rich shady information broker, dean is just messed up ok, i can't do math, monsters not a secret, sam has Problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:15:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23350810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightofdean/pseuds/nightofdean
Summary: Dean wants to join the family business, it's what he's always wanted to do. It also what Sam has always wanted to do. Except only one of them can become a true part of the Shurley family business.Charles Shurley officially is from the oldest and richest magical family in the world - some say behind hands and jokingly "richer than God Himself" - unofficially he's an unscrupulous information broker.
Relationships: Chuck Shurley & Dean Winchester, Chuck Shurley & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester





	blood is thicker than water

**Author's Note:**

> idk what corner of my brain produced this but here it is. idk if i got the ages for this right i think sam and dean should be older but pretend it makes sense. 
> 
> comments are appreciated.

He grows up in a luxurious mansion, all marble floors delicately decorated bannisters, elegantly carved columns dividing rooms. It is all for him.

And Sammy.

Sometimes they let Uncle Bobby out to play, but he quickly stops being any type of fun soon. He always looks sad and pathetic when they want to play for real, a sharp look from Dean shuts him up though.

Dad never stifles their creativity, Bobby tried once – and Sam and Dean didn’t see him again for weeks.

Dean likes to make things like Dad, tries to remember what Dad taught him – you must destroy to create. One of the many servants in the manor brings him a wet whimpering human, he gets to work. Taking apart, cutting, rearranging, putting back together. It’s all practice for the big performance Dad keeps talking about.

His experiments never breath again like Dad’s do. Another failure.

Dinner is called soon enough and play time is over. It’s only him and Sammy at the ornate wooden table again. Alone amidst luxury. Dean is bored, frustrated, another failure hanging over his head.

Sammy doesn’t have to worry about being heir of the Shurley name, of taking over. If Dean fails – then Dad will kill him. All Sammy had to worry about was school grades.

A servant laid down the food, her eyes flashed against the light. Vampire. Dad took pride in…domesticating vampires. Something about taking out the middleman in their creation.

“Come here,” he told the vampire, something in him twisted hot and angry.

“Yes, young master,” said the vampire.

“Kneel,” all he could think about was that mornings failure, of the crimson organs in his hands lifeless.

He looked in the vampire eyes as she kneeled, eyes a shiny blue, all he could see were his eyes. And his fingers destroying them, the eviscerating the soft eye, swirling his finger inside the eye socket until he felt bone and muscle. It was interestingly soft, if he went further, he could penetrate the brain, but decided not to.

The vampire had not uttered so much as a scream. Good girl, he thought.

Dean removed his fingers from the slowly gushing socket and paid no mind as two werewolf servants rushed the girl away, and the Head Butler rushed to his side. Dean held out his hand, soiled by the vampires tainted blood, the Head Butler, Crowley cleaned it wordlessly.

Dean stared at the food in front of him, acid green eyes darting up across at his brother, who ate silently. Yet, he could see his hand shaking minutely.

“Young master, might I suggest not terrorizing the help,” intoned Crowley voice impossibly bland.

Dean snatched his hand back, lip twisting, “No, you may not suggest.” He left the dining room without so much as a by your leave.

* * *

Crowley stood ridged in the dining room, tending to Dean was like holding a ticking time bomb. It was always just a matter of time till the next explosion. It just had to be today of all days. When the Boss would be returning, which explained Dean’s untimely eruption.

Crowley sighed and got to work setting up the manor for Charles Shurleys’ return. Hopefully the man wouldn’t be to harsh on Dean for breaking one of his employees.

* * *

In his study Chuck began working on his next draft, it was a small kernel of an idea that he hoped would bare fruit and grow into a rich world. Hopefully. He was getting deep into writing out the workings of spellcasting and magic when a knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

Chuck had to admit to himself when he began immersing himself in this world, that he had not anticipated the needs of…children. After John Winchester’s “accident” during a hunt – which was painfully easy to arrange. Atropos _could_ on occasion be persuaded to cut the life of a human a little shorter than planned. If she got something in return. Suffice to say arrangements were made.

The knock was meek, and he noticed rather insistent. It was probably Dean; Sam was too shy and usually sent Crowley to him. It was rather cute how Sam would ask Crowley to talk to him before coming to him first. As if testing the waters. It was cute, but also calculated. Dean, however, was direct, he cut through the middleman despite any warning Crowley gave the boy.

Dean pushed his way in the room, after some struggle with the door knob and made a beeline for Chuck’s desk.

“I wish to speak, Father.”

Chuck smirked; it was so interesting to watch them.

Dean took that as permission and hurtled on, “How am I to take over the family business when I cannot create life.”

Chuck’s mirth grew at the child’s frustration. Dean never would create life; he would get close when he read the witchcraft books Chuck was going to give him soon. Dean would create a facsimile, but it would be broken and twisted. It was Sam that was gifted with magic, who would surpass Dean in the necromantic magics.

Chuck leaned back in his seat, and using a mundane innate kinesis levitated a book of necromancy, thick and leather-bound and gifted it to Dean. From the entrance of the study, Sam watched on envious, as Chuck promised Dean the glory the of the Shurley name.

The promise was wrapped in ancient magics and a blood adoption that would give only one of the two orphaned children a real father. Something he knew they craved deeply. Which was why he left them in an orphanage for two years after John Winchester’s (un)fortunate death – to cultivate that need for family. So, they looked nostalgically on that paternal love instead of bitterly – like so many others like them.

* * *

Sam, was a lonely child, clothed in the nicest fabrics possible. Sam’s adoptive father made sure he went to the most private exclusive school on the planet, he had everything. Yet, he was still lonely, isolated.

Which was why he sometimes visited Uncle Bobby at the edge of the manor grounds when he got the time. It was how he realized there was something different about him, or at least his family.

“Boy, you musta be some kind of idjit to visit me,” grumbled Bobby, his place was nice but half the size of the manor.

Sam sat at the edge of the couch, picking at his school uniform, having run straight to Bobby’s place after school. The corners of his eyes pricked with tears, ghosts of what he saw earlier flashing at the back of his mind.

“I know, it’s not allowed.”

Bobby shook his head; _do you even know why it’s not allowed._ Hung unspoken.

“Alright, out with it before your Dad comes looking for you.” Sam only ever showed up like this when something bad happened. Bobby was beginning to worry that someone – his Dad – was abusing the boy.

“I saw something bad happen and – and then it happened.” Sam’s lip trembled, throat burning with the memory. “I think I made it happen.”

“Now there’s got to be a good explanation for – “

“No! I saw it. I’m not crazy,” Sam was practically shaking now, eyes darting all over, to the windows and door. “I can’t be here. I have to go.” He ran out the room, grabbing his school bag, and not stopping until he was in bed.

That was the last time he spoke to Bobby.

Paranoia overtook Sam for the remainder of his school years, he fell into his studies, social life falling away. He began reading Dean’s necromancy texts searching for answers to his visions, a way to stop them, instead he found something even better. Control.

* * *

Control and mastery over life when Sam’s own life was a chaotic jumble of piercing headache vision filled cocktail of fear and paranoia – was intoxicating. Necromantic magics required an amazing amount of emotional control and Sam had that in spades when he sat at the bottom of the house of cards of the Shurley family. Where showing weakness and pain was sure to get you dead.

Now, what seemed impossible was within reach. The ability to inherit the Shurley family name, the ability to go through the blood ritual and become the true heir was within his reach. It was all within his grasp. He only had one obstacle.

* * *

At the orphanage no one wanted them, they only had each other.

Until the vaunted and influential - rumored information broker – Charles Shurley arrived.

He smiled and gave them both hugs, adopted them, told Dean he was special.

Hugged Sam and told him he was unique.

Raised them, made them who they were. Are.

* * *

The blood ritual had to be before Dean’s thirteenth birthday or else it wouldn’t work, and he couldn’t be the heir. To prove his ability though, Dean had to do a demonstration in front of Dad and an audience of politicians and celebrities, people who paid to be there. Dad didn’t entertain those types of people often but when it came to bragging about his children and showing off he did.

When Dean failed to create a satisfactory human life, Sam planned to jump on the stage and save him.

That was the plan.

Dean finished drawing the sigils, and ingredients to summon a human, to create human life. Then he began chanting and – Sam will bet his pronunciation was off – the entire stage blew up. The spell backfired and Dean was sent flying, but didn’t land, as Crowley caught him.

They all looked around as the smoke cleared, no newly created human appeared. Only a dark gash on the stage, and a buzz in the air.

* * *

Sam got his chance to prove himself – as Dean’s birthday passed, his brother fell into depression and seclusion. No longer able to represent the family. Sam proudly stood on the stage, sigils drawn to perfection, ingredients picked and cut meticulously, pronunciation perfect.

From the glowing array a homunculus stood – tottered really – and moved at Sam’s every whim. He had done it. Sam could see a smirk lift his Father’s lips.

* * *

Sam and Dean hadn’t spoken in months – the manor big enough to avoid someone if you wanted. Yet, they both had to be present for the blood ritual, for Sam to finally become Charles Shurley’s son in not just name but blood.

Sam’s Father handed him a knife – gold and perfect – the hilt made of pearl. Brothers stood across from the other, Sam held the knife aloft.

Dean was ordered to kneel – he did so, unquestioning – and Father directed Sam’s hand, the tip of the dagger to Dean’s throat. Sam blinked, hand jerking away, but Father’s warm hand tightened around his own.

“It’s fine, Sam. This is how it’s done.”

Sam froze, as he watched the dagger slice into Dean’s throat. Sam watched fascinated and disgusted as blood gushed in rivulets into the goblet Father held. Sam choked as he told himself this was how it was done. As he drank his brother’s blood, as he watched Dean fall to the floor useless and choking on his own blood. Sam told himself Dean didn’t have what it took to be a Shurley, that this was how it should be.

Sam reminded himself as his Father, drained some of his blood into the goblet and tipped it into Sam’s mouth and drank. Yes, Sam chanted this was how it was done. It was done. It was done.

So, it shall be done.

Sam drank the warm blood and ignored the heaving breaths of his dying brother – nothing more than waste at his feet now.

Blood of the covenant was, of course, thicker than the water of the womb.


End file.
